


everybody's type

by queervengers (nonsexualandsilly)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: College AU, F/M, M/M, Mentions of Jackson Whittemore/Danny Mahealani, Mentions of Jackson Whittemore/Danny Mahealani/Isaac Lahey, Mentions of Jackson Whittemore/Others, Mentions of Stiles Stilinski/Danny Mahealani/Isaac Lahey, Mentions of Stiles Stilinski/Derek Hale, Mentions of Stiles Stilinski/Lydia Martin, Mentions of Stiles Stilinski/Peter Hale, Mentions of Stiles Stilinski/others, Minor Allison Argent/Derek Hale/Lydia Martin, Minor Danny Mahealani/Isaac Lahey, Minor Jackson Whittemore/Allison Argent, everyone drinks a lot, everyone sleeps around a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-11 22:09:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1178531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonsexualandsilly/pseuds/queervengers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's all Greenberg's fault. Well, Greenberg and Scott McCall. Because while Greenberg was the one who suggested the entire BHU lacrosse move in together, everyone’s favourite co-captain, Scott “My Mom Does All The Grocery Shopping” McCall was the one who somehow convinced Finstock it was a good idea.<br/>So it’s really McCall’s fault that Jackson is currently being kept awake by the sounds of Stiles Stilinski having sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	everybody's type

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dammitkathleen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dammitkathleen/gifts).



It's all Greenberg's fault. Well, Greenberg and Scott McCall. Because while Greenberg was the one who suggested the _entire_ BHU lacrosse move in together, everyone’s _favourite_ co-captain, Scott “My Mom Does All The Grocery Shopping” McCall was the one who somehow convinced Finstock it was a good idea.

So it’s really McCall’s fault that Jackson is currently being kept awake by the sounds of _Stiles Stilinski having sex._

Stiles Stilinski.

_Having sex._

Jackson bangs on the paper-thin wall separating their rooms, but the noise just blends in with the sound of Stilinski’s bed ramming against the wall. Again and again, accompanied by the sounds of two dudes fucking. Which Jackson wouldn’t give a flying fuck about, seeing as he shared a suite (and the occasional blowjob) with Danny for two years, but it’s two in the morning and he has his first class of the semester in six hours.

He bangs on the wall again. “Stilinski!” Nothing.

Well, not _nothing_. Jackson’s pretty sure Stiles gets louder after that.

Jackson throws off his blankets and storms into the hallway, where he bangs on Stilinski’s door, which gets no answer. “Stilinski, so help me, I will open this door and punch you in the dick if you don’t quiet the _fuck_ down.”

And thank god, the noise stops, but only long enough for the door to swing wide open to reveal Stilinski, naked, looking pissed as fuck. But apparently not pissed enough to kill his boner, which is –

Jackson looks away quickly and clears his throat. “Look, Stilinski – ”

Stilinski thrusts a package of earplugs at him, tells him to suck it up, and slams the door in Jackson’s face.

 

 

“McCall!”

Scott opens the door, bleary-eyed and looking confused. Jackson has _zero sympathy,_ though, because he is running on _four hours of sleep._ “What is it, Jackson? It’s six AM.”

“Remember how we, _as a team_ , decided that the _co-captains_ should take the two rooms in the attic?”

“Yeah?”

“Then why the _fuck_ did you give your room to Stilinski?”

“Uh, because Isaac wanted a roommate?”

“And he can’t live with your life partner? Trade rooms. Today.”

“Jackson…” McCall looks like he’s going to say something, but instead he just shakes his head. “I’m going back to sleep.” And then he closes the door – making it the second door closed in Jackson’s face in the past few hours.

He resists the urge to hit something, and instead channels his anger into making his egg white omelette and protein shake.

 _this semester fucking sucks_ , he texts Lydia.              

 _Things are what you make of them,_ she replies, unhelpful as always.

 

He makes it through the day, even if he does nearly drift off in a handful of classes. And then he finally makes it to his last class of the day – which, of _course_ , he has with Stilinski – and he’s heard great things about Peter Hale’s teaching, he really has, but he can’t exactly appreciate it because he’s asleep almost as soon as he’s in his seat.

And then he’s getting called out by Dr. Hale, and he hasn’t cried in public since he was six and his dad told him crying was for little bitches. But he comes close now, when Dr. Hale makes a snide comment about posturing and parental neglect that might hit a little too close to home, and Jackson can’t _do_ anything. And if there’s anything Jackson hates more than people who think they’re better than he is, it’s feeling powerless.

So he silently puts his notebook back in his backpack, slings the bag over his shoulder, and walks out of the lecture hall.

Fuck the consequences. He’s too tired to give a shit.

 

It takes ten minutes to walk back to the house – Jackson doesn’t know why they couldn’t have bought a house closer to the center of campus, but _whatever_.  At least he’s got his bed waiting for him – memory foam mattress, silk sheets, twelve pillows. He’s practically drooling just from thinking about it.

He _finally_ gets to the house, storms through the kitchen and up the three floors to the attic, throws his bag on his chair, kicks off his shoes and jeans, and collapses into bed.

He’s asleep before his head even hits the pillow.

But he doesn’t get to appreciate it for long. Less than an hour later, he’s woken by the sound of his door creaking open. Goddamn old houses.

“Fuck off,” he mutters, but the words are muffled by his pillow.

“Oh, shit, man, I’m sorry.” It’s Stilinski. Goddamn fucking Stiles Stilinski.

And Jackson hears the door start to close, but he’s Jackson Whittemore, for shit’s sake, so he turns away from the pillow. “Stilinski!”

Stiles opens the door again. “Yo!” he says, leaning against the doorframe. _Yo_. Like that’s a thing people say.

“What do you want?”

“I wanted to apologize.”

Jackson sits up and raises his eyebrows. “Go on.”

“I, uh.” Stilinski scratches the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean for things to get so loud, Derek and I just – we bumped into each other during dinner, and – ”

“You and Derek Hale are a couple?” Jackson’s _very_ surprised, because Derek Hale is _way_ out of Stilinski’s league.

“Uh, no, we just fuck sometimes? I mean, hadn’t seen him since spring, and things just kind of happened. He’s TAing his uncle’s class, though, so last night was a last hurrah, whatever, don’t want to get caught fucking my TA, you know?” He laughs nervously. Jackson wants him to shut the fuck up.

“Wow, Stilinski, that’s fascinating, except that I don’t give a flying fuck about the details of your sex life. I just want to know if I’m going to have to buy stock in the earplug industry or not.”

“The ones I gave you should last for a while, and, like I said, the Derek thing’s over so things should be at least limited to weekend hook-ups, and I’ll try to keep it down.”

Stilinski has _weekend hook-ups_. This is news to Jackson, and he snorts.

“What?”

“I’m sorry, I’m just –”

“Can’t handle me having more sex than you?” Stilinski is grinning, _teasing_ , and Jackson is 100% fed up with his _bullshit_.

“You are _not –_ ”

“Well, uh, according to Danny and the fact that Lydia’s listed as single on Facebook again, I actually am!”

Jackson glares at him. “Leave.”

“Oh, dude, I’m sorry, that was uncalled for, I –”

“Get the fuck out of my room, Stilinski.”

Stiles throws his hands in the air. “Okay, going, going!”

Jackson would go back to sleep, but well. He’s never been one to back down from a challenge. So instead he calls Lydia.

“Jackson.”

“Hey, babe. Hear you’re listed as single on Facebook again.”

She laughs. “I was wondering how long you’d take to notice.”

“How long has it been like that?”

“Two months, sweetheart.”

“ _Really_?”

“You were in London, I was bored. I sent you an email.”

“Oh, must’ve missed it.”

“Mm.”

“Want to come over and make up for lost time?”

“Jackson, it’s a Wednesday. I have class tomorrow morning.”

“What time?”

“Ten.”

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

Lydia sighs. “Fine, fine. Text me your new address, I’ll be over at nine.” She hangs up without saying goodbye.

He sets an alarm for 9:30 PM – knowing Lydia, she won’t show up until ten – and goes back to sleep.

 

This time, he sleeps through the door opening, and wakes up to Lydia’s mouth on his dick. Which he is A-OK with. “Mm, that’s good,” he mumbles as he opens his eyes, sliding a hand down to rest on the back of her head.

She lifts her head. “Good morning, sleepyhead.”

“Hey, you.”

He smiles down at her, and she slides herself up to kiss him, then makes a face. “Go brush your teeth. Jesus, Whittemore.”

He rolls his eyes at her, but gets up and heads to the bathroom he shares with Stilinski.

When he gets back, Lydia’s lying on his bed, stripped down to just her bra and thong, using one hand to text and the other to play with herself, idly.

“Good, you’re back.” She spreads her legs a little wider. “You know what to do.”

And he does. He walks over to her, slides her underwear off, dropping kisses on the inside of her smooth legs in their wake.

“Get on with it, Jackson.”

“Pushy, pushy.” He lets out a laugh and bites the inside of her thigh gently. Her breath hitches, so he bites the other side, and then thumbs at her clit, just _looking_ at her. He missed this, all summer; sure, he had _plenty_ of sex, but he and Lydia always end up like this – his head between her legs, her pretending she’s bored – and it feels right, it really does. They’re a disaster, sure, but no one else has ever come _close_ to making him feel the way Lydia does.

“Stop thinking and eat me out already. Christ.” She gets mouthy in bed, and he fucking loves it. She cups the side of his face, runs a thumb along his cheekbone tenderly, before sliding her hand to the back of his head and pushing him down. “Suck.”

And he does.

He loses track of time, working until his jaw is stiff and his chin is slippery, but it’s worth it for the sounds she makes once he gets her going – she’s told him before that she’s not generally much of a screamer, but he’s just _that_ good.

He gets her off eight times before she finally pulls him up and kisses him. “Your face is all wet,” she says in a voice nearing a giggle.

“No shit.” He grins at her, and she laughs. This is his favourite Lydia – she stops putting up walls after a certain number of orgasms. He doesn’t know how many; he’s not the scientist here. But there’s something about this side of Lydia, where she’s not afraid to laugh or smear her makeup or make ridiculous comments about his sexual prowess.

He loves her like this.

“I love you,” she says, like she’s reading his mind.

“I love you too,” he murmurs against her lips.

“Are you going to fuck me or not?”

“You still on the pill?”

“Of course. You still clean?”

He rolls his eyes. “Coming from you?”

“Shut up, you big whore. Just get your dick in me already.”

“Anything for you, babe.”

 

He gets Lydia off four more times with his dick, then lets himself come inside of her, groaning as she squeezes around him. She mumbles as something as he does, but she passed the point of coherency two orgasms ago. “Tissues?” she manages, and he groans, because he hasn’t bought any yet.

“I’ll get toilet paper, hold on.” He grabs her waist and flips them over so that she’s on her back, hips lifted so his come doesn’t leak all over the bed. He kisses her and darts to the bathroom, not bothering with pants because it’s late and he assumes Stilinski’s in bed for the night.

He’s wrong, though. Stiles is brushing his teeth when he opens the bathroom door.

There’s a moment of silence, then:

“I want my earplugs back, Jackson.”

Jackson just laughs and grabs the entire roll of toilet paper.

 

He knows Lydia likes to take her time getting ready, so he wakes her up at eight by sliding a hand down the front of the boxers she borrowed to sleep in. She makes a small noise and grinds back against him, and he kisses the back of her neck. “Morning, babe.”

She turns to face him and smiles softly. “Hey, you.” She runs her nails down his chest, then wraps her hand around his dick. “Quickie?”

He laughs and rolls on top of her in response.

 

By eight thirty, he’s asleep again. It’s a good way to start the day.

 

He doesn’t have class until noon, so he sleeps for another two hours, then makes his way downstairs for a quick workout and breakfast. It’s not until he goes back up to the attic that he sees the green post-it note on his door.

‘ _its on, whittemor_e’ is scrawled in Stilinski’s chicken-scratch handwriting.

Jackson laughs and heads for the shower.

 

That night, Jackson slides the earplugs under Stilinski’s door and fucks Lydia senseless again. When he wakes up, there’s another green post-it, this time on the bathroom door, with three lines on one side and two on the other. No labels, but Jackson gets it – it’s a score sheet, and he’s winning.

 

Friday night marks the first lacrosse party of the year, and it’s a good one, people crammed in the kitchen and living room, crowded around beer pong tables and the booze, music too loud to really hear conversation.

Then Danny emerges from his room with two bottles of tequila in hand, and shouts something about drinking games in the den, and Jackson is all _about_ the drinking games!

It’s possible he’s already drunk.

They settle in, too many people to fit without sitting on laps, so Jackson ends up with Lydia perched on his lap, his palms resting on her thighs. She’s got a beer in hand, but isn’t drunk yet – despite being all of 115 pounds, the girl can hold her alcohol, and rarely gets drunk. Which is disappointing, because she’s cute when she’s drunk. She’s always cute. But also highly intimidating. And beautiful!

He tells her all that. She tells him he’s drunk.

She’s not wrong.

 

“Never have I ever…put my penis inside of a woman,” Danny starts.

“ _Never_?” someone Jackson doesn’t recognize asks.

“Never,” Danny confirms. “Couldn’t even get it up when I tried. Drink up, bitches.”

Jackson does. He then also drinks for putting his penis inside a man, going to class high, getting arrested, and wearing a dress in public.

Next is Stilinski, who’s crammed on the couch  between McCall and Jackson. “Never have I ever, hmm.” He surveys the room. “Ooh! Never have I ever performed a sex act involving Jackson Whittemore!”

Jackson takes pride in how many people drink on that one – more than half the room, by his best guess. “Never have I ever performed a sex act involving Stiles Stilinski,” he counters, and is pleased to see that fewer people drink for that, though still a surprising number, including –

“ _Lydia_?”

“It was a drunk handjob freshman year, Jackson, don’t worry about it.”

He makes a face at her and resolves to ask her about it later, but is distracted by the conversation McCall and Stilinski are having:

“Dude, jerking it doesn’t count!”

“Scott, I can suck my own dick, it _counts_.” Stilinski looks up and makes eye contact with Jackson. “Wanna see?”

“ _No_.”

Lydia nails most of the room with having never stepped foot inside a Wal-Mart.

By the time they finish the circle, Jackson’s mostly stopped wondering just how flexible Stilinski _is_ , because he’s kind of very wasted.

He falls asleep on the couch, and doesn’t wake up until Lydia shakes his shoulder. The party’s still going, but the crowd is starting to shrink.

“I’m leaving, babe, I’ll text you.”

He looks at her, then looks at the stairs. “Help me get to my room first?”

“You big baby.”

“Please?”

She rolls his eyes, then drapes his arm over her shoulder and helps him up the stairs, then tucks him in with a bottle of water and two Motrin tablets on the nightstand. “You okay to make it through the night?”

He smiles up at her. “You’re so sweet when you’re not a massive bitch.”

“Thanks,” she says drily. “That means a lot.”

“No, I mean it, I love you.” He’s not sure if the words make it out clearly, though, because he’s asleep by the time he’s done saying them.

 

Of course, he doesn’t get to sleep for long, because he’s awoken soon enough by the sound of voices in Stilinski’s room.

“Have we thought about the logistics of this, though?” That’s Lahey’s voice, with that weird accent, and Jackson does _not_ want to listen to Stilinski getting that dick. So he reaches over to his nightstand to grab the earplugs, but they’re not there. He swears under his breath, and then hears another all-too-familiar voice.

“Don’t worry about it,” Danny’s saying. “We’ll make it work.”

“Damn right we will,” Stilinski says, and Jackson just…can’t.

He puts in headphones, turns up some music, puts a pillow over his head, and tries to sleep.

 

There are two new tally marks on the post-it in the morning when Jackson stumbles to the bathroom to puke. He is not amused.

 

Two weeks later, Jackson is winning, twelve to eleven, when Stilinski comes up to him during a party and sits on his lap.

“So I’ve been thinking!” Stilinski announces, clearly shitfaced. Jackson isn’t far behind him on that front, though.

“Wow, that’s new. Can I have my lap back?”

“Fuck you, I’m brilliant. And nope, there’s nowhere else for me to sit and I want to talk to you! And point out that you, sir, are _cheating_.”

“Cheating?”

“Well,” Stilinski drags out the word, “sort of. Really, I just think we need to adjust our scoring.”

“Sore loser.”

“But think about it, Jackson! I have gotten my eleven points from nine different people. And several of those points are from _threesomes_. Whereas you have twelve points from Lydia. Just Lydia. And sure, she’s a _hell_ of a woman, but there should be some adjustment!”

“You just want to win.”

“Dude, I don’t even know how this turned into a competition. But you’ve gotta admit, you don’t really have _game_ if your game only applies to one person, you know? Like Scott – sure, he gets laid twice a week, but he’s only had sex with two people _ever_. Which is _so_ different from getting it twice a week from two different people, am I right?”

Jackson kind of sees Stilinski’s point, mostly because McCall does not, in fact, have any degree of “game.”  He says so, and Stiles laughs.

“So fuck someone else, buddy! Live a little!” Stilinski thrusts a beer into his hand. “Lydia’s still sleeping around, why aren’t you?”

That’s news to Jackson, but it’s also all the permission he needs to go _prove himself_. He sees a brunette with a nice ass, and he is 100% he is going to _hit that_. “Do I get extra points for anal?”

Stilinski shoots him a look. “Dude, of my eleven, eight have been dudes. We can do more points for anal, but if we do, I’m going to _crush_ you. Anyway!” He stands up and brushes off Jackson’s lap. “I’m gonna go see if Isaac wants a handjob. Later, loser!” He blows a kiss and runs off, leaving Jackson to go and try to seal the deal with that girl.

He sneaks up behind her and throws an arm around her shoulder. “Hey, babe, I – Allison?”

Her hair is shorter than when he last saw her, but it’s definitely a pretty drunk Allison Argent. “Jackson! Hey!” She grins, and it’s _adorable_ , and last he checked she was single, so.

“I love your hair!” He tucks a lock of it behind her hair, and she fucking _bats her eyelashes_ up at him. He’s got this in the _bag_.

 

Sure enough, less than half an hour later, he’s fucking her against the wall separating his room from Stilinski’s.

And sure, maybe he feels a twinge of guilt when she leaves after, but Stilinski had a point – if Lydia’s still fucking around, why can’t he?

 

“I wanna tie you up, babe,” Lydia whispers in his ear the next time she’s over, a little less than a week later. And Jackson’s never been one to say no to that side of things with her – it’s not like he’s the type to go out and join fetish websites or whatever, but it’s Lydia, and  she sure as hell knows how to make him feel good. So he nods, and she grabs five ties from the closet and uses her knowledge earned from childhood full of sailing camps to secure him, all the while teasing him with light touches and bites. She uses the fifth tie to blindfold him, then makes her way down to his cock, and the sensations are just –

Gone.

They’re gone.

“Lydia?” Jackson chokes out. He feels her sit at the bottom of the bed, hears her pick up her dress and put it back on.

“So, Allison told me about what happened last weekend. And let me tell you, Jackson, I _really_ expected better of you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he tries, but Lydia’s been able to see through him since day one.

“I haven’t fucked around behind your back _once_ this semester, Jackson, and you go for my _best friend_? That’s a new low, even for you and whatever your weird little competition with Stiles is. And babe, I love you, I do, but I love _me_ even more. And I deserve so much better than your shit, okay? I don’t doubt that you care, in your weird, fucked-up little way, but that’s not good enough anymore. I shouldn’t have to make excuses for all the shit you put me through, Jackson, and let’s be real – I’ve never exactly shied away from hurting you either. So I’m not going to go nuclear on you, I’m not going to bite off your dick or anything, because I really _don’t_ hate you. I think somewhere, buried in there, is an actual decent human being. But I have more important things to worry about than your personal growth. And since I’m not really a good person either, I’m going to leave you here like this, because, well, you kind of deserve it.” She laughs, a sharp, bitter sound. “You fucking whore.”

He hears the sound of the door closing, followed by the sound of her heels clicking down the stairs. And then he realizes that he’s stuck like this, unless he can get someone to help him, and unless he wants the whole lacrosse team seeing him like this, he’s only left with one option.

It takes half an hour for Stilinski to _finally_ get back from class, but when he does, Jackson says his name once and that’s all it takes.

“What’s up – oh my _god_ , Jackson, oh my _god_ , hold on, let me get my camera, oh my god.”

“Don’t you fucking dare, Stilinski. A little help, here?”

“Okay, okay, oh my god.”

And then Jackson can see again, thank fuck, but the first thing he sees is Stilinski, _laughing_ , and that’s just the icing on the goddamn cake.

“This never happened,” he says as Stilinski unties his wrists.

“Of course it didn’t.”

“You will never speak of this. _Ever._ ”

“Nope.”

“Leave.”

“Hey, hey, I think I deserve a thank-you. Maybe a box of chocolates.”

“Thank you. _Leave._ ”

 

The next few months are kind of a whirlwind, and the original post-it has to be replaced twice, and Jackson is _pretty_ sure he’s winning but there’s no definitive answer. But Jackson Whittemore isn’t a loser, and, despite their hazy scoring system, it’s pretty clear he’s getting more action.

He’s slept his way through half of his classmates, had a threesome with Danny and Isaac (which, Stilinski called _unoriginal_ on a post-it the next day, but Jackson and Danny have been fucking around for _years_ and Jackson isn’t going to let Danny’s boyfriend keep that from happening again), and managed more meaningless hook-ups in one semester than he had in the rest of college combined.

So yeah, he’s pretty sure he’s winning, no matter how loud Stilinski’s lays get.

At least, until mid-January, when he walks in on Stiles sucking off Peter Hale. _Professor_ Peter Hale.

He doesn’t say anything, just waits outside the classroom until Stilinski comes out a few minutes later, wiping his mouth. “So, for the record, that didn’t happen.”

“Weren’t you fucking his nephew a while back?” Jackson points out.

“Ages ago, Jackson. Dust in the wind. Unless it means I get extra points. Plus, I mean, he’s a _professor…_ ”

“Which just makes it illegal, doesn’t it?”

“Dude, no, he’s not _my_ professor anymore. Never taking a class with him again, christ. But doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate office hours!”

“I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”

“Also, didn’t you bone one of your TAs last semester?”

“Two, actually. Wanna grab lunch?”

 

“So I’m dating Derek Hale,” Lydia tells Jackson over the phone a few weeks later.

“Good for you,” he says, absently.

“And Allison Argent.”

“That’s…nice. Why are you telling me this when you haven’t spoken to me in months?”

“Because I’ve heard about your escapades and I’m worried you might get an STD. Ever think about limiting yourself to one or two people?”

“Been there, done that, not really my thing. Why limit myself?”

“You never change, do you?”

“Nope. Lax house party tonight, you should come.”

“We’ll see.”

 

Lydia does show up, with Derek and Allison in tow, and the three of them spend most of the party in a corner making out, before they all disappear into a back room.

Jackson’s surprised to find he’s not jealous, at all. He’s thinking about that, pondering it while he finishes his sixth beer, when Stiles collapses next to him on the couch and throws an arm around his shoulder.

“You look like you’re thinking awfully hard, there, Jackson. Wouldn’t want to damage your precious few brain cells!”

“Oh ha. Have you thought about being a comedian? Really, it’s your true calling.”

“Anyway! What say you we start up some drinking gaaaaames?” Stiles turns the last word into a weird sort of melody and then laughs, and Jackson realizes that, somewhere over the course of the year, they’ve become friends.

Friends who bicker and listen to each other have sex on a regular basis, yeah, but friends nonetheless.

So in response, Jackson grabs Stiles by the wrist and pulls him into the kitchen, where they grab some rum and make the announcement. Stiles sits on Jackson’s lap in the cramped den, waving around his drink and shouting comments about the rules of Kings, before the game somehow shifts into something else – Kiss, Drink, Tell, Jackson thinks, but he’s drunk and not really paying attention until a girl across the circle asks him if he’s ever contracted an STD.

He chooses to kiss her, and then announces that the answer is a resounding no, and then takes a drink.

“You only have to do _one_ thing, _god_ , Jackson,” Stiles tells him. “You rich boys are _so_ bad at rules.”

“Yeah, as if you’re any better.”

“Try me.”

“Who in this room would you _not_ fuck?” It’s Jackson’s favourite question for the game, because it brings out the worst in people, so he’s certainly interested in Stiles’s answers.

Except he doesn’t get one, because Stiles takes that moment to plant a exaggerated kiss on Jackson’s cheek.

“Oh come _on,_ Stilinski, that doesn’t even count.” He realizes how that might sound, so he tacks on a quick “no homo” to the end, which cracks Stiles up.

“’No homo’? ‘No homo’? Jesus Christ, Jackson, _so much homo._ I walked in on you sucking a dick last Tuesday; your homo levels are unprecedented.”

“No homo with _you_ ,” Jackson corrects.

“Not even a little bit?” Stiles pouts at him, and Jackson rolls his eyes.

“Would it make you feel better?”

“So much better. Kiss me, big boy.”

Jackson’s pretty sure what happens next is basically a game of chicken gone wrong, but one moment, they’re engaging in totally harmless, totally platonic banter, and the next, Stilinski’s tongue is down his throat and Greenberg is wolf-whistling across the room. Jackson flips him off, then comes to his senses and pulls away from Stiles.

“The hell, man?”

Stiles shrugs. “I was feeling it. Were you not feeling it? I felt like you were feeling it.”

Jackson’s drunk enough to admit he’s feeling it.

 

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do this?” Stiles asks between kisses.

Jackson doesn’t reply, instead opting to kick the door shut behind them and push Stiles toward the bed, getting both of their shirts off in the process.

“Like, a really fucking long-ass time. I jerked it while listening to you and Lydia back in the day, btdubs. Also, sorry my room’s a mess.”

“Do you ever shut up?” Jackson says, working on undoing Stiles’s fly.

“Occasionally. Your dick in my mouth my help that process.”

“Yeah, okay, I can – ” Jackson stops talking as his ass hits Stiles’s bed, because what the _fuck_. “Jesus christ, Stilinski, did you buy this bed at fucking _Wal-Mart_?”

“What? I like my bed?”

“Nope, we’re going into my room. Come.”

“Plenty of time for coming later,” Stiles sing-songs. Jackson wants to hit him, really. Or fuck him. He compromises by slapping his ass while ushering him to the other room. And, yeah, now that he pays attention, it’s a _damn nice ass._ He says so, and Stiles laughs.

“You bet it is. Wanna fuck it?”

“Yes. Come on, less talking, more sex.”

“Wow, with lines like that, no wonder you’re falling behind.”

“I’m – ” Instead of letting Jackson finish talking, Stiles kisses him again, pushing him down onto the (king-size, memory foam) bed and straddling him.

“I think we talked about your dick being in my mouth?”

“We also talked about it being in your ass.”

“Patience is a virtue! Drop trou!”

“Did you just tell me to _drop trou_?”

Stiles rolls his eyes, then tugs off Jackson’s jeans by himself, and Jackson’s pretty sure he’s not imagining the way Stiles’s face lights up at the sight of his cock.

Which totally makes sense, because he has a _great_ dick.

Stiles starts to say something, but Jackson just shoots him a look and points, and _god_ , Jackson objectively knows that Stiles is good at giving head, because he’s overheard it _so many times_ , but knowing it objectively is very different from _feeling_ it. And _damn_ does Stiles know how to use his hands and his tongue, even if he’s clearly still a little tipsy, and there’s no deep-throating happening but Stiles more than makes up for it, skilfully working Jackson toward orgasm.

“Stilinski, I’m enjoying this and all, but I’m pretty sure you told me I could fuck your ass.”

Stiles pulls off with an obnoxious _pop_. “Damn right! Condoms, lube, et cetera?”

Jackson twists around to grab them out of his nightstand and throws them on the bed, then drags Stiles up to kiss him. “You’re still wearing pants.”

Stiles kicks them off, along with his underwear. “Not anymore! Anyway, are we going to play the foreplay game or do you just wanna get on with the show?” Jackson starts to respond, but Stiles cuts him off. “Fuck it. On your back, pass me the lube. As much as I’d sort of like to take my time, I got fucked yesterday, I don’t need much prep, and I want you in me, like, ten minutes ago.”

While Stiles is talking, he’s rolling a condom onto Jackson’s dick and slicking them both up, working himself like a pro, and then he’s sinking down on Jackson’s cock and –

“ _Oh_ ,” Stiles says softly, reverently, as Jackson bottoms out. “Fuck, that’s good.”

“You get fucked four times a week, Stilinski, and I haven’t even gotten started. Don’t pretend I’m anything special until I get going.”

“First of all,” Stiles says, lifting himself off of Jackson’s cock, then taking it again, faster this time, “I get fucked once a week, _tops_ – at least half of the people – oh fuck, yeah, pull my hair a little – I get it on with are girls, and I like doing the fucking part with guys sometimes too. Secondly, it’s better with people I genuinely like. Thirdly, and last, I don’t understand why I can still talk right now. Fuck me like you mean it, Whittemore, for shit’s sake.”

So Jackson does.

He pulls Stiles down and kisses him, then thrusts up, and Stiles starts to talk again so Jackson kisses him harder and starts working on establishing a rhythm that cuts Stiles’s vocabulary down to three words – “fuck,” “yeah,” and “Jackson.” Within a few minutes, they’re not even really kissing, just breathing against each other’s  mouths, and it’s hard and dirty and no, it’s _not_ the best sex Jackson’s ever had, but it’s damn fucking good.

He reaches between them to work on Stiles’s dick, slick with precome and leftover lube.

“Jackson?”

Jackson slows down, working his hips in small circles so that Stiles can compose himself. “Mm?”

“I’ve heard you have sex, like, four hundred times, I know you have great stamina, whatever, you don’t have to prove anything to me. But I could very easily ride this train to O-Town, and – ”

“Yeah.” Jackson picks up the pace again, Stiles pushing back to match every thrust. “Fuck yeah, come whenever you –”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Stiles gasps, coming between them.

“That was fast.”

Stiles kisses him. “Shut up and just come already.”

It takes a few minutes, but Jackson gets there, Stiles urging him on the whole time.

After, Stiles rolls off of Jackson and reaches for the tissues on the nightstand, starting the cleanup process. Jackson throws away the condom, then heads to the bathroom to take a leak.

When he gets back, Stiles is asleep, sprawled across two thirds of the bed. Jackson doesn’t feel like being a dick, though, so he just crawls into the last bit of space and throws an arm around Stiles’s waist. Stiles, in return, scoots closer to Jackson, tucking against him until they’re basically spooning.

“That was nice,” Stiles says softly, barely more than a breath.

“Actually, yeah, it was,” Jackson admits.

Stiles makes a noise of contentment, then falls asleep.

 

When Jackson wakes up, Stiles is gone. Not that he cares, of course – it was a one time thing, and he was drunk, and Stilinski was one of the only decent looking people on campus he hadn’t slept with, anyway, so it was just a matter of time, he tells himself.

He goes for a run, then makes breakfast, and  it’s not until he goes upstairs to shower that he sees that the old post-it has been replaced again, by one that just says _IT’S A TIE!_ with little balloons drawn on the side. Jackson rolls his eyes and takes it down, only to find another note under it:

_and let’s keep it that way_

_you, me, dinner and blowjobs, tonight?_

Jackson grins, and writes _YES_ underneath.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Written for round one of twrarepairexchange, as a gift for too-weak-to-be-your-cure on tumblr.


End file.
